"I have feasted sufficiently. Let us make another basket. It can be smaller than this."
It was very pleasant to dally there in the woods. He was unnecessarily awkward, that the slim fingers might touch his, and her little laugh was charming.
"Allow me to carry the larger one," and he reached for it.
"No, no. You are weighted in the pockets. And these are choice. I will have no one take part in them."
She drew herself aside and began to march with a graceful, vigorous step, her head proudly poised on the arching neck that, bared to summer suns and wind, yet was always white. The delicious little hollow, where the collar bones met, was formed to lay kisses in, and be filled with warm, throbbing lips. Yes, he was right in coming back to Quebec, she was more enchanting than the glimpse of her had been.
"Why do you look at me so?" she cried, with a kind of quick repulsion she did not understand, but it angered her.
"It is the homage we pay to beauty, Mam'selle."
"Your sister is beautiful," she said, with an abruptness that was almost anger.
"So thought the Sieur de Champlain, and I believe she was not offended at it."
"I am not like that," she declared decisively. "She was fair as a lily, and Father Jamay said she had the face of a saint."